Stillness
by humperdink
Summary: Harry lies very still and hopes for nothing at all. A HarryDraco oneshot.


**Title:** Stillness  
**Pairing:** Harry/Draco  
**Author Note**: The inspiration for the style of this work comes from the lovely Francesca Lia Block, especially her novel _Wasteland_, which contains no dialogue punctuation whatsoever. I feel it adds to the surreal and dreamlike quality of the work. Any strangeness in punctuation is intentional.  
**Warnings:** Violence, vague implications of boysex, cursing  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own JKR's ideas. I'm just playing with them, and promise to return them in more or less the same condition.

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Wet snow crunches beneath the soles of Harry's trainers. He is a speck of darkness in a sea of glimmering drifts of white and he feels very small. The looming shapes of the frozen trees are coming into focus with each step, and he lets out a heavy sigh that takes form before his eyes.

Malfoy is standing at the edge of the frigid lake; his posture slumped, his eyes staring out across the half-frozen water. He looks up at the sound of Harry's footsteps. You're late, he sneers, but it is cracked. Harry thinks of broken glass.

What's this about? Harry asks, trying to sound casual but sounding rehearsed instead. He knows the answer. He always knows.

Malfoy's sneer is fixed, glued, painful. I'm leaving, he says. Tonight.

Harry nods, feeling the cold seeping into his bones. Like a disease. When are they coming?

When I'm ready, is the reply and he lifts his chin arrogantly, self-righteously. Harry thinks he has never seen anyone look so lost or scared. Looking at the sad, silvery boy with his hands in his pockets and his cheeks pink from cold makes him want to cry.

You'll be Marked, then? he asks in almost a whisper, his throat aching from withheld sobs.

Malfoy laughs derisively. The loud, harsh sound cuts through the snowy stillness of the night. Harry thinks it sounds desperate, almost like a sob.

You don't understand anything, Potter.

You're the one who doesn't understand, Draco.

A glare. Malfoy.

A pause. Surrender is not something he is accustomed to, especially in the case of this boy for whom he'd felt so many fierce, fleeting, painful emotions. He feels a flash of the old hatred; he can taste its bitterness on his tongue. He feels the anger rise in his chest and he lets it. He lets it fill him and he says, I love you, Draco.

There is a blur of movement and he feels Malfoy's fist connect with his jaw. The pain is absolute and satisfyingly so. Shut the fuck up!

Harry's eyes are watering. He blinks and says fiercely, I love you, Draco.

Shut up! Malfoy screeches and falls on top of Harry in a jumble of flailing fists and insults.

Harry takes this opportunity to grasp the blonde's face in his hands and begin kissing his mouth violently, desperately, brutally. Harry feels Malfoy's shoulders heave and his body try to twist away but Harry holds firmly and after a moment the other boy seems to give in. He begins kissing back, biting at the corner of Harry's lips and sucking his tongue hard into his mouth. It is only when Malfoy begins to rut against him that Harry notices that he is lying down in a drift of snow. His whole body is getting very wet and slowly very numb. But he is too numb already, too numb from all the months of secrets and fights and deaths and lies and quick fucks in dusty broom cupboards. He can feel nothing but the fire in Malfoy's kisses. The world is gone; there is only pain and heat and the throbbing ache between his legs.

Potter, a sigh, almost tender. Potter, his name again, nastier this time. You're sick, you know that? A pant, a moan. You love this, and it's disgusting.

Harry groans and pushes his voice through the lust. No, I love you.

No! Another fist, and Harry's lip begins to trickle hot, coppery blood.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you, Draco.

Fists rain down with cries of anger and sobs. Harry feels the words form on his lips over and over again. He can not stop them. I love you.

Harry's body sings with dull pain from the blows, and in a fuzzy, half-conscious way he can feel the blood already drying stickily on his cheek. There are lips and lips and hot, hot tears. Everything is salty-- blood, tears, and sadness mixing and spilling across Harry's lips.

A sigh.

A brush of hair against his throbbing temple.

A memory comes to him then, distantly, vaguely. He remembers being so, so full and the taste of his own tears on someone else's lips. They were kissed away he thinks, but he's unsure. There are whispered words, pained apologies. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll stop, I can't hurt you, I don't... He hears his own voice, then, softly and as if through gritted teeth. Please, no. Please I need you this way just this way please please I love you...

In the present it is so cold that Harry thinks he may die, but there are kisses and warm, salty tears that are not his own and more whispers, more of those tenderly pleading requests for forgiveness. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, God, you're so bloody, what...

There is a noise to Harry's right. Something is moving toward them, he knows, though he dare not try and open his swollen eyes.

He hears a gasp and then a mouth bends low and a familiar voice, a voice that means everything and nothing to him at once, speaks. I have to go, it mumbles. Hot breath ghosts across the shell of his ear. I have to. This way... this is easier. For you. And safer. So much safer for you and the life you... A pause. I have to do this. For you. I love you, Harry.

He opens his eyes at these words but Draco is gone, swallowed by the wintry night. The sky is dancing with glittering red, though, and through his numb haze he knows someone will come for him soon. Soon he will be in the hospital wing in a snug, safe cot, drinking Pepperup Potion by the bucket-load.

He hopes they do not see the red lights dancing above him. He hopes they allow him to sink into the ground, bury himself under cold snow and frozen earth. He lays very still, and hopes for nothing at all.

_Fin_.

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**Reviews are appreciated. Those who offer constructive criticism will be showered with flowers and other niceties. **


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